


The Herbarium

by Fuuma_san, VirtualCarrot (Kaoro)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Jealousy, Light Angst, Misunderstandings, Other, Pining, South Downs Cottage, both the use and criticism of flower language because I contain multitudes, canon typical blasphemy, historial settings, soft, two idiots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29402391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuuma_san/pseuds/Fuuma_san, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaoro/pseuds/VirtualCarrot
Summary: Crowley introduces Aziraphale to a new kind of book - an herbarium -  and so the bibliophile starts one. It's his own private repository of plants with strong memories of Crowley, inscrutable enough that Heaven or Hell wouldn't be able to figure that out. Unfortunately, neither could Crowley, but he's supportive in his own jealous way, passing him plants over the years that seem appropriate.Turns out they were a little too on the nose and gave it all a bit away.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 88
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang





	The Herbarium

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is Team 33's for the Do It With Style's 2021 Reverse Bang! Big thanks to the mods for all their hard work! I was lucky enough to be paired with [VirtualCarrot,](https://virtualcarrot.tumblr.com/) whose _gorgeous_ art is in the last scene of this story. I found the herbarium idea she had very compelling, as a perfect combination of Aziraphale and Crowley's favorite hobbies, and I hope you all enjoy reading the story I've written about it. It's soft and happy because, god, don't we all need some of that in our lives?

—— Outside London, 1823, The Regency —— 

Birds were chirping their happy little songs as gentle breezes wafted past the crowd of nobles milling about. It was disgustingly perfect weather for a garden party; the Duke of Wellington must be pleased. Crowley gave his own empty pleasantries at the entrance and then stayed off to the side. The other guests lounged around exchanging war stories, flaunting the jewelry of their many murderous accomplishments over brandy. Jewelry, medals, whatever— it was all the same thing. The fact that the humans had special words for their various military decorations didn’t make the shiny metals they strapped to themselves not murder jewelry. Didn’t make watching them brag and gloat over how much they had gathered like some sort of murderous magpies any more tolerable. 

Crowley was here for the newly appointed Duke himself, to convince him that he wanted to go back to directing mass murder instead of resting on his laurels in his shiny new place in the peerage. He'd lingered nearby, catching snippets of braggadocio, but no convenient conversational point of entry arose so he drifted away. The surrounding conversations were much more interesting anyway. There was rampant speculation in the air, as those born into wealth and power sneered at a man granted it by decree. There was even a nasty rumor that all of Mr. Arthur Wellesley, First Duke of Wellington’s accomplishments against Napoleon were merely luck. With a few whispers, Crowley changed it to the even nastier rumor that the Duke had actually lied and all the decorated warchief’s jewelry was thanks to him stealing credit for other soldier’s accomplishments. 

Pleased with himself Crowley turned, smirking, to find Aziraphale frowning at him. He looked different than the last time. His coat was clearly newer than the rest of his ancient outfit, being of a more fashionable cut and styling in his usual cream coloring, and had a fresh cut orchid pinned to its modern styled lapel. It stood out in stark contrast to his very worn-out waistcoat, where more of the velvet had been rubbed off than not. 

“Good day, Mr. Fell. What a surprise seeing you here,” Crowley said, carefully neutral in his tone. 

“I could say the same for you,” Aziraphale replied curtly, his eyes darting around, assessing how many eyes might be on them. He tilted his head in the direction of a row of tall hedges on the edge of the party, tipped his hat politely, and walked away. Crowley took the hint, casually making his own way to the other side of the designated shrubbery. In a matter of moments Aziraphale joined him, his stride changing from casual disinterest to a directed hustle the moment he was out of view of the other guests. 

The angel drew up with a smile that was bright and twinkling all the way to his eyes, and Crowley felt the annoyances of his day melting away, nearly forgetting his previously ruffled feathers.

“Hello, my dear! What brings you here? Business or pleasure?” Aziraphale said. 

“Business, unfortunately.”

“Oh,” he replied, crestfallen. “Business as well.” 

Crowley frowned. “I’m to convince Arthur Wellesley to go back to the military,” he offered, hoping that it was the same task Aziraphale had been assigned, but the angel responded by slumping his shoulders and heaving a sigh. 

“I’m to convince him to retire from the military,” he said, then huffed. “Bother.”

They shared a moment of disappointed silence before Aziraphale broke it. 

“Well, no use lingering on it. How have you been? I haven’t seen you since my grand opening.”

“How is the bookshop doing? Selling many booksss?” Crowley said, cocking his head and swaying a bit.

“A few. Here and there. As need be,” Aziraphale demurred. 

Crowley smirked but dropped it. “Settling in then?”

Aziraphale perked back up, wiggling as he recounted all the new books that he’d added to his collection to “fill out the shelves better.” The only two that interested Crowley were the spooky ones: Frankenstein by Mary Shelley and The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving. During his monologue Aziraphale’s eyes did a little up and down, quietly taking in all of Crowley, so he posed a bit on the second one.

“You look rather dashing. The new styles suit you," Aziraphale said, gesturing to Crowley’s neck, where he was sporting a new fashion. “The tighter neck stock is very flattering. Makes your neck look long and lovely.”

Crowley hummed, pleased with the compliment. “I see you’re still wearing pantaloons. Those are finished, trust me. You should get yourself some trousers.” He brushed at his own modern clothes, a pair of pleated trousers, which got Aziraphale to admire his legs. Aziraphale’s own legs were shown off marvelously in his tight pantaloons, flattering his strong calves and well-turned ankles. The newer trousers would conceal them, which was a shame. He rather liked looking at the angel's strong muscles, but the winds of fashion moved even Aziraphale, eventually. “Trousers would look better with your new coat. Which is surprisingly fashionable, for you. You’re even wearing a boutonniere! You’re practically modern, other than the pantaloons.”

“My bou… Oh!” Aziraphale’s hand came up, hovering above the orchid blossom and he blushed and averted his eyes. “This. I, uh, can’t claim credit for this. It was a gift.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes, though Aziraphale was too busy staring into the distance thoughtfully to notice. “A gift.”

“Yes, from a lovely young man who came by the shop earlier today. He works as a florist and pinned it on for me when I told him where I was going today. Wasn’t that thoughtful and generous? Orchids are so beautiful.”

That made Crowley frown. Who was this upstart human? Why was he giving Aziraphale flowers? Crowley realized Aziraphale had started talking again and rushed to catch up.

“... it's just like them all really. So sad,” Aziraphale said. 

“I’m sorry, what?” 

“Flowers, my dear. They’re so beautiful but so sad, because this one will die for me to enjoy it. In a day or two it will shrivel up to nothing but a faded memory, a rotting husk of its former glory. Mortal and fleeting, like they all are.” He stared at his hands, back bowed. 

Crowley's bottom lip stuck out, pouting for him. He didn’t like that at all, seeing his angel so defeated. “Well there are ways to preserve them. Flowers. And you’ve got a whole book shop full of books to do it with.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You can press plants. Flowers. That flower specifically. With your mountains of heavy books and all. Certainly have enough of them, that's for sure. To do that you flatten it out between sheets of a special paper the humans make and then you stack books on top. That will preserve a plant for a long time. You could even make a book just out of the pressed, preserved flora. Humans sometimes do for medicinal books, rather than relying just on drawings. They’re called herbariums, if you're interested in them. There are some from the 15th century still floating around here somewhere, I’m sure, and you know who all the book brokers are… Anyway if you wanted to make your own, you could keep your orchid for centuries by turning it into one of your precious books and storing it with all the rest.”

“Really? How have I never heard of these?”

“Well, it was mostly an Italian thing. Saw one when I was hanging out with a bunch of painters, getting them to make irreverently sexy art of God.”

Aziraphale looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Ah, your renaissance nonsense.” He looked back down at his flower, petting it gently. “A flower could really last for hundreds of years that way?”

“Yeah, ‘course. Leaves and stems last even longer, so they’re easier to work with, but I’m sure you’d get the knack of it quick. You’re good with paper and books and things.”

“I think I shall,” he said. Aziraphale took a step closer and placed his hand gently on Crowley’s shoulder. It was warm and welcome, a rare moment of physical connection that he drank up. “An herbarium sounds like a lovely addition to my collection. Thank you. For caring, and wanting to help.”

Crowley shrugged off the hand and gratitude, pretending it didn't faze him and then ruined it when he mumbled, “Nnnnnn— nothing. ‘S nothing. Nyeah.” He tucked his arms behind him and swayed, trying to play it off.

Aziraphale smiled at him for a while before something occurred to him and he sighed. “I suppose we should get back to work. We still have to figure out how we’ll both make our bosses happy with opposite goals.”

“I’m sure something can be… arranged.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips and shot him a level look. He was always so paranoid, especially after open affection, it made Crowley sigh as well.

“Yes. Let’s hope," Aziraphale said.

Hope wasn’t necessary. It turned out that there was an ambassadorship in need of filling, so they encouraged the Duke to take it. Beelzebub was pleased, since he’d gone back into power and influence, and Aziraphale’s bosses were also satisfied, since it wasn’t a return to the military.

—— London, 1862, The Victorian era —— 

The note was still smoldering in the pond as he watched Aziraphale storm off. 

"Obviously," Crowley mimicked. He snorted, ignoring the stabbing sensation in his chest. If the angel wanted it to be that way, so be it. He'd spent centuries alone before and he could again.

His resolve lasted only as long as his anger. And though it smouldered, banked but there for a solid two months before the last ember fizzled, it left only a cold, hollow emptiness behind. 

There was nothing for it but to go to Soho. He stood on the sidewalk opposite the bookshop, trying to decide if he should go in or not. The lights were on, though the sign had been flipped to closed, but that had never stopped him before. He shifted from foot to foot. What if Aziraphale was still angry? What if he was unwelcome? Had enough time passed yet? The angel in question walked into view and sat at his front desk. It was hard to make out what he was doing through the mosaic of flyers obscuring the windows, but Crowley's curiosity won over his desire to lurk out of sight. He sidled up to the front window on the edge of the building, crossed his arms and leaned against the glass. Nonchalantly waiting, at the edge of the shop, his sunglasses obscured passers-by to the fact that he was looking through the gaps and into the window. 

The angel was at his desk, only a few feet away but engrossed in reverently tracing the edges of a book with no writing on the cover before slowly opening it. It was a book with very thick, blank pages. Crowley frowned. Why would Aziraphale look so bittersweet, be giving a doe-eyed, tearful assessment of a blank book? 

He turned another page, revealing a pressed orchid on the otherwise white page. It wasn't even one of the good orchids, the ones with bizarre colors and shapes, or one of the rare ones that humans spent lifetimes chasing. It was a plain white one with a dark speckled center, the most common kind of orchid you could find anywhere. 

Crowley scoffed. Why would he press and keep such a common— then Crowley realized. It was the boutonniere from so long ago. Aziraphale really had started that herbarium like he’d suggested.

The angel took a deep breath, let it out and deflated, hunching over his desk and the book. Gently, he ran one fingertip over the edge of the flower. He turned the page and spent several minutes arranging a freshly pressed yellow leaf to the center of the page— another common thing so uninteresting as to be unremarkable. The little decorative trees all over at St James Park had leaves like that for Go— Sat— _someone's_ sake. 

Aziraphale looked up, blinking rapidly and spoke. Crowley couldn’t hear his voice, near as he was, but it was so clearly said that it was easy to read his lips. 

"I miss you."

Crowley reeled. Here his angel was, mourning some human that showed him a little interest forty years ago and couldn't even be bothered to give him befitting gifts— Had they been… together? Then? All this time since? 

Crowley turned his back on the shop, staring vaguely at the street, ending the sight prickling his heart. Aziraphale deserved to be loved, deserved companionship and presents and... And he couldn’t get that from a demon. He certainly reminded them often enough that they were hereditary enemies, putting so fine a point on it during their recent fight that it was still lodged in Crowley’s ribs. 

He put his hat back on and left. So what if Aziraphale really did have other people to fraternize with, why should he care? He didn't, that's what. So what if he didn't have any other friends? He was a demon, he didn't need friends. 

It was frustrating how much harder it got to be apart from Aziraphale as the centuries stacked up. Months alone felt like years used to. In the end, the very first time Aziraphale sought him out his resolve caved. He wouldn't bring up holy water again, or the humans his angel valued more than him. 

—— London, 1921, The Interwar Period —— 

The humans were calling it The Great War, as if there were anything great about killing a whole lot of people very efficiently with their fancy new killing machines. They just got better and better at it— millions had perished this time. Crowley wouldn’t be surprised if this was all a lead up to the end-end, as the shadow of another stupid war loomed on the horizon. Some were calling it the war to end all wars, and Crowley hoped not. He knew how _that_ one would go and he wasn’t ready for it to be over. 

Aziraphale was similarly morose, even though the fighting had stopped years ago. It was nearly all they’d talked about during their social call. He’d barely touched his wine but was acting as if he was a few bottles in, misty eyed and lost in thought as they reminisced. 

“They’re wearing poppies today,” Aziraphale said softly. 

“Who?” Crowley paused in refilling his glass.

“Everyone. They’re for Remembrance Day. A way to not forget. To honor the dead.”

“The dead don't need honor, they're dead. Gone to their respective teams… There were _so many_ dead. They were barely grown, most of them. Practically children and dying in filthy ditches,” Crowley said, not sure if he was angry or weepy, but he was definitely wishing he were drunker. He finished topping his glass and took a deep swig.

“Yes. It’s…” Aziraphale said, frowning and staring into his own glass, as if there were secrets beneath the red liquid. “It’s incomprehensible. To think about all of them, even _I_ cannot comprehend that many people all at once and now they’re just… gone. There was nothing I could have done, was there?”

“They did it to themselves, angel. You’re just one being, miracles or no. You couldn’t… There were millions of them. _Millions_.”

Aziraphale lifted his hand to the poppy on his lapel. “I can remember them, at least. The ones I knew.” Setting his wingelass down he unpinned it and held it up vacantly, twirling a different red thing in the dim light of the bookshop.

“Yours isn’t paper like everyone else’s.”

Aziraphale hummed. “I miracled one up before I realized the paper ones were the done thing. I bought one of those from a nice woman selling them in the street. But I don’t want to just… Just throw this one away. Like their lives were.” A tear leaked out of his eye and he hurriedly swiped it away. Crowley leaned forward, wishing he could help, could at least hold his hand while they mourned, but he knew that Aziraphale would brush it off, try to maintain their distance, like he always did. So Crowley waited, hovering, and they shared a moment of silence. 

“Well let’s… let’s save it then, yeah?" Crowley interrupted the quiet. "To remember them. All of them— All the humans we’ve lost. Press it and keep it in your herbarium.”

Aziraphale smiled, watery and soft, and it made Crowley feel the same in his chest. “That’s a lovely idea. Thank you for it, as I shall.” 

It was nice, Crowley supposed, to get credit for it, even if it was a memento of all the humans Aziraphale had cherished and lost. He’d have to bring him more plants, something cheerful next time. The least he could do was fill the book up with happier memories of the humans.

He’d come up with something. 

—— London, 1941, World War II —— 

It was a lot more difficult than one might expect to live with the realization that you were deeply in love with your hereditary enemy. The fact that Aziraphale could never truly let himself act on those feelings was the hardest part. Possibly, it was exactly as difficult as one would expect. At the very least, Aziraphale was certainly having an extremely hard time coping since he'd been rescued by those double dealing Nazis and had such an inconveniently earth-shattering revelation. Now every time he looked at his demon his chest burned with it, glowing from the inside out. He'd known that any kind feelings for a demon were forbidden and that to be seen together or to have anyone notice that he'd taken an interest was dangerous for all involved, but that was a lot easier to do when you weren’t _aware_ you were head over heels. 

The number of times on the car ride alone he wanted to touch him… 

"Oh… you stupid angel. This is so inappropriate. You’re going to get the both of you killed," he said to himself as he paced his bookshop for the third night in a row. "You've just got to… ah… you have to ignore it. It's not like he's in love with you. He's in love with- with the humans and their fast lives and inventions and fancy things. The Bentley. Flash and- and- and change. Nothing you are. You're best friends, and you can keep being best friends and you’ll enjoy spending time with him just like you always have. So just… calm down and do… do something else!" 

He picked up the top book on the nearest stack, a misprint bible he’d intended to shelve but then realized all his bibles were in the wrong place. They’d be much happier by the couches, which meant he had to move those books somewhere else, and before he knew it several days had passed and half his bookshop had been reordered. 

“Felt like rearranging, then?” Crowley’s voice floated from behind him. He swirled, leaning over the railing to see Crowley on the ground floor, looking up at him from the center of the room, hands in his pockets and swaying slightly, a repressed little smirk on his face. 

“Crowley! How lovely to see you. I’ll be right down, let me just…” he trailed off, trying to finish shelving the books in his arms but without the room to do so. He gave up, set them in a stack on the floor and rushed down the little spiral stairs. “Tea?”

“Sure, why not,” Crowley replied, throwing himself into a sprawl on the couch. His eyes were caught by something on the coffee table and he frowned. Aziraphale followed the line of his eyes and saw he’d left his herbarium out, open to an empty page. 

“This is my herbarium! I know we’ve talked about it before but this is the first time you’ve seen it, right?” he said, flipping to the page with the orchid. “Remember that time in the garden?”

“Yes, yes, I remember your herbarium,” he replied. “And I remember The Garden.” Even spoken, the weight on the words made it clear that Crowley was not talking about the Duke of Wellington’s estates. 

“I didn’t mean _that_ Garden,” Aziraphale said. “Though wouldn’t that be a thing, to have something in my book from there.” He put the herbarium away and gathered his tea service. 

Crowley hummed, thoughtful, his bottom lip sticking out in that cute way it did when he was about to propose a crazy scheme. Aziraphale waited, working on the tea for both of them quietly. It would come out when his demon was ready. 

When he poured the hot water Crowley finally said, “You could, if you wanted to.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Well… I may have… taken a few things with me when I left. A few fruits, a cutting or two… Figured, well the humans have already eaten it once, what’s more?”

“You didn’t!” he gasped, scandalized enough that he stopped stirring. 

“Yup,” Crowley said, popping the p. He picked up his own cup, holding it to absorb all it’s warmth. The serpent. “Planted them. Gave them to some humans to tend. The seeds turned out wildly different, mostly apples and crabapples, but the cutting that took looks almost exactly the same as _The_ Tree. I check up on it from time to time, make sure the humans aren’t neglecting it.” 

The air filled with the smell of hot metal and carbon as Crowley snapped and then it was gone, leaving the usual evil stench of a demonic miracle behind. Crowley held out a leaf he'd summoned, a nondescript green one tapered to a single point. 

"Is this really from… _The Tree?"_

"Mmmmhmmmmm," he said, biting his lip as he proffered it, his golden eyes shining with excitement. 

Aziraphale took it, holding it by the stem with reverence. "Oh. Well, I'm glad I didn't start on the first page. This is perfect for the beginning of my book." A leaf from literally the beginning of it all, but more importantly, from when they’d first met. There were only three pages so far, but they were all memories of Crowley, so it seemed appropriate that the first be from _their_ first. He flipped to the first page and laid the leaf in the crease. "I'll label it 'Eden' and only we will know what it actually is. Thank you, my dear."

Crowley beamed internally, his muted smile and the tautness in his cheeks giving it away. He always tried to play it cool, hide his happiness, and Aziraphale had gotten used to it, enjoyed even his muted pleasure. Aziraphale briefly entertained the idea of telling him what the only other leaf in the herbarium was but decided not to. It was a Japanese maple leaf that he'd found stuck to his hat after their fight about Holy Water. Thinking about that day still made his chest ache, so it was probably best he not mention it. 

—— London, 1967, Modern era —— 

As Crowley stood staring at his safe, now occupied with Aziraphale’s tartan thermos of Holy Water, he found himself trying to come up with something to give Aziraphale in return. It had been a weighty gift, not so easy to pay back, but he wanted _something_ meaningful he could at least give to Aziraphale. Crowley swiveled, spying his oldest living house plant - a ficus tree he’d grown from a little sprout back when he’d been moping about their fight in the park a century ago. He plucked one of the nicest leaves (though they were all perfect leaves; they knew better than to be less than perfect) and rushed to the bookshop. 

Aziraphale was pacing, pulling at a handkerchief, his fingers, the bottom of his waistcoat. He jumped when Crowley said his name but let out a relieved sigh in a whoosh, running over to take Crowley’s hand in both of his own. Crowley froze, shocked by the sudden contact.

“You’re here! You’re fine and here. Good. Good,” Aziraphale blurted out. 

“ ‘Course,” Crowley said, confused. Where else would he be? And why was Aziraphale still holding his hand? “I brought you something. A present, of sorts.” Aziraphale lit up and squeezed his hand. It made Crowley feel like his guts were squirming around inside him, and he felt his face heating. “ ‘S nothing big, nothing nice, just…” He held up the leaf. “For your herbarium. A trade. Something from your home is in mine, so here’s something from mine to live in yours.”

Aziraphale dropped his hand to take the leaf and Crowley almost regretted handing it over. Which was stupid, it was just holding hands. Stupid snake to miss such a simple thing just because it was warm and inviting. Just because they didn't usually doesn't mean they wouldn't again. 

With a massive smile, Aziraphale twirled the leaf between his fingers, bouncing on his heels. “How thoughtful. Thank you." 

It made Crowley feel so light and happy he only managed a garbled "Mnnyyeah, whatever," in reply.

Thus began Crowley's habit of picking out a nice leaf or flower whenever they met up. A particularly long blade of grass from the park. A pansy from the tea service at the Ritz. Whatever he saw that felt right, felt suitable as a gift for his angel.

And then came that fateful August, when they discussed Armageddon from dawn to dusk. Finally, _finally_ Aziraphale agreed to help and they formulated their plan. He hadn’t thought it would be so hard, had really thought the ‘save the humans and earth you love so much’ angle would work, but eventually the thwarting tack was convincing. Crowley pulled a leaf from his pocket he'd picked up earlier, one that had started to yellow but was still green at the veins. 

"Here. For your book. A memento. For all the humans we're trying to save," said Crowley. Aziraphale, recently sobered, smiled wobbly and accepted it. Of course it was just the thing for a book of his memories of humans, though Crowley felt smug about being the source of most of its contents. 

—— The Ambassadorial Estates, 2013, Pre-Apocalypse —— 

Being a gardener involved a lot more sunshine and gossiping with the secret service than being a bookshop owner did. Normally it would probably involve hours of, well, _gardening_ , but Aziraphale quickly concluded that anything beyond a bit of watering and maintenance pruning was finicky specialist work he didn't enjoy, so he miracled the garden to pristine condition once a week. 

Crowley complained regularly that it made the whole premises stink of heaven, a lingering sting of ozone and antiseptic. She wasn't wrong, so they'd taken to trading off on the miracle. This week was Crowley's but it was well into the evening and she still hadn't done it. He was worried, uncertain to what this break in routine signalled, so he went looking for her. 

She wasn't in her room, or the kitchens, or smoking with the secret service on the porch. They said they'd seen her head into the gardens. When he found her it was nearly dawn. She was twirling a sprig of pine needles, sniffing it idly and lost in thought on the edge of the property. 

"Are you alright, my dear?" Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley turned and upon seeing Aziraphale her whole face softened in the pink light. Aziraphale's heart flipped, twitching and pulling in response. 

"Fine, thanks. It's just that… I'll miss it, when it's gone.” She paused, turning back to her plant and cocking her head before she whispered, “I'll miss… miss everything. That we have here." 

"Oh, I know dear. You love the earth, and all the things the humans have made, but have some faith. It's working. The boy is normal. And when his 11th birthday comes in a few months he'll choose humanity. It'll all work out."

Crowley grumbled, mumbling something with a dour face that he didn't catch. She handed the sprig over. 

"For your book. In case… in case." 

He accepted it, swallowing against the lump in his throat. "This seems… appropriately hopeful. An evergreen, in hopes the earth will remain ever green."

"Yeah. In the language of flowers pine leaves are a wish for longevity and a speedy recovery from hard times."

"Is it? How did you know that?" 

"Oh well…" she sighed, a bit pouty and reluctant. "I had a bit too much fun with all the repressed Victorian intrigue. Stoked that particular nonsense up."

"I should have known. I had so many customers come asking for those ridiculous little chapbooks to decode the secret messages hidden in a dinner party's decor or whatever nonsense." 

Crowley chuckled. "Yeah. Didn't mention it because I knew you'd be mad." 

Aziraphale huffed. "I would have been. Quite rightly so!"

She conceded the point with a tilt of her head, one of her curls falling against her neck. He had to clasp his hands behind his back to resist tucking it back up for her. She swallowed, hard, and looked up at the lightning sky. 

"I'll miss this."

"Being a nanny?"

"No, working together. Seeing you every day. Walking in the garden, arguing about miracling it too much." 

Aziraphale found himself quite completely unable to reply, so he nodded, sniffing back the tears that threatened. It would all work out, in the end. Wouldn't it? 

They parted with long, lingering looks, both obviously wanting to stay. Aziraphale returned to the gardener's cottage, set the sprig of pine on his desk as he pulled out his herbarium, gently opening it to the first page. 

Then he really did start crying, looking at the first page with it’s secret leaf, the word “Eden” above it in gold calligraphy. Crowley had slithered up and been kind, been caring, and nothing at all like what he’d been led to believe a demon would be. He turned the page, and there was his boutonniere from some party, ages ago now. He couldn’t even remember why he had it, or which of the many social gatherings he’d been at. But Crowley had taken an interest, taught him something new, a new way to appreciate and combine their hobbies together, and that's what it meant to him.

The next page was a leaf from the day they’d argued over Holy Water, then a long blade of grass from a lovely date they’d taken to catch up on work in the fifties. A pansy that had decorated a cake Crowley had bought and slid across the table after taking one bite. She had always shared like that, was always ready to enjoy the experience together, her smug little smile for when she wanted to hide that she was pleased. Aziraphale loved that smile. Loved the whole catalogue of joy he’d gotten to share with his demon. 

Crowley’s houseplant’s leaf was next. She’d talked about them, talking about growing things all the years they’d been on earth, but Aziraphale hadn’t yet seen them, hadn’t met the tree this grew from. They hadn’t shared that joy together, since he'd never seen the demon’s flat. Maybe never would before the world ended. 

Aziraphale pulled his handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. He’d kept these specimens in pristine condition for over a century. He only handled them with gloves, kept them from strong sunlight, and he’d be damned before he contaminated them with weeping. 

“The language! Oh, that damned secretive demon.” He used a miracle to fetch his copy of a book on the secret language of flowers he’d been gifted by the demon so long ago from his bookshop. One by one he looked up each of the specimens in his herbarium, writing down the meanings on a scrap of paper as he went. When he finished he stared at it 

> _An apple leaf — long life, knowledge_ _  
> _ _Japanese maple — calm balance in all things_ _  
> _ _Grass — submission to love, unusual love_ _  
> _ _Pansy — loving thoughts, free thinking_ _  
> _ _Ficus — peace, abundance_ _  
> _ _Yellow tulip — hopeless love_ _  
> _ _Peony — the most beautiful love, perfect love_ _  
> _ _Acacia — secret love_ _  
> _ _Blackthorn — fate, hope in adversity,_ _  
> _ _Pine — longevity, recovery from hard times_

Aziraphale closed the herbarium gently.

“Oh, Crowley,” he whispered, tears running unchecked now. “I love you too.”

—— London, 2019, Post Armageddidn’t —— 

The world didn’t end.

It not only didn’t it end, they were finally free of their bosses, of the fights and of sides and of hiding things for their own safety. 

“To the world,” Crowley said with his smug little smile he always wore when he was holding back. 

Aziraphale melted, returning an unbounded smile formed by all the love he had in his heart. “ _To the world_.”

They toasted, chatted, and slowly shed the tension and terrors of the last week over a truly grandiose lunch. They were whole, their belongings were whole, and the world was whole. They finished and decided to go back to the bookshop to celebrate some more. As they walked, giddy and reveling in each other’s company the wind gusted, knocking a rain of golden leaves around them from the trees lining the street. One pristine leaf hit Crowley right in the face and he flinched. 

“What the Hell,” Crowley griped, pulling it off him. 

“Let’s not bring them back into this. That was just random chance, dearest.” He took the leaf from his hands. It was a lovely specimen, fading from yellow to blush quite prettily, not a single blemish to mar it. “How marvelous. I shall keep it as a memento. Of the days after the world didn’t end.”

“For your book?”

“Yes, quite. It suits it.”

Crowley hummed, “Yeah, for the world and all. The tree it came from is only here because we stopped armageddon.”

“Though I’m not sure the symbolism is appropriate.”

“What do you mean?” Crowley squinted, suspiciously. Aziraphale smiled, amused. 

_He must not have realized I know about the other presents,_ he thought. “Well, do you know what the hidden meaning behind London’s Plane Trees?”

“No.”

“Exactly. Neither do I. So I’m going to look it up.” Which he did, promptly as he arrived at his whole and un-burned down bookshop, while Crowley crowded awkwardly behind him. 

“Ah! Here it is… ‘The plane tree has meaning derived from Greek mythology of regeneration, a renewal of old to new as symbolized by the peeling away of its bark as a snake sheds its skin.’ ” Aziraphale set the book down, pulling his glasses off in his amazement, and turned to Crowley. 

“That’s a bit _too_ on the nose. Ugh.” Crowley curled his lip. “Well, I don’t like it. Should I expect to need a shed soon, you think? And close your mouth Aziraphale, it’s just coincidence, like you said. It’s the plane tree. Plain. Tree. They line half the streets in Soho and there’s very little else that could have possibly run into my face today. So let’s not read into it.”

Aziraphale pulled down his herbarium, carefully turning to the next blank page and pulling out the pressing papers. He nestled the leaf carefully in them, closed the book, and moved it to his book press. 

It was a sign, a good sign, a sign they had done the right thing. “Well, I like it. It doesn’t have to be miraculous to be perfect. And it is a perfect addition. It suits the theme.” 

Crowley frowned, eyebrows drawn down in confusion. “How? It’s not like the humans shed any bark or skin or whatever. Not even metaphorically. They just… Failed to be destroyed. They weren’t renewed or regenerated or anything. Unless one of your friends was mixed up in the M95 fire?”

“My friends? No, nothing like that.”

“Well then how does that suit your theme perfectly then?”

“We shed our skins when we took each other’s… You know. Best not to speak of it, lest we be heard. And _we_ are renewed. Peeling away old ties for new ones. And our things even, the bookshop and the Bentley, all safe and sound and regenerated.”

“Yeah, right, fine. But that doesn’t fit perfectly with the memories of the humans that your herbarium is full of.”

“No, it isn’t like that,” Aziraphale chided. “No, my herbarium’s theme is us, and how much we love each other but haven’t been able to show it. And now we can, so a leaf symbolizing that change, the shedding of old ties, the transition from that to being on our own side, together, is the perfect addition.”

Crowley froze, wide eyed and blinking. “It… Whut.”

“You heard me,” Aziraphale sassed. 

Crowley blinked more and a blush bloomed on the apples of his cheeks, slowly spreading until it consumed his entire bewildered face. “I thought it was a tribute to all the humans that you’ve loved,” he said softly. 

“It was certainly about the _person_ I loved, but that isn’t a human. Each of these is a cherished memory I share with you. You are my best friend and my favorite being in all existence. I should have noticed you loved me just as much as I did you before we were literally dealing with the end of the world but… well. No one is perfect.”

Crowley groped behind him, miraculously finding a folding chair in the chaos and sitting down. 

“You…” his demon gathered himself, shaking his head and prickling up as shock transformed to annoyance. “You should have! It’s certainly been long enough.”

“That’s rich coming from you, someone who didn’t even know I loved him till just now when I said so.” 

That just annoyed Crowley more. “You can sense love! I’m a demon, I have an excuse. What’s yours?”

“That you’ve loved me for so long I’ve forgotten what it felt like to live in a world without it. That it was so gradual and over so many years I didn’t realize it was there until I was drowning in it.”

Crowley stopped, frowned. A tear came to his eye and he blinked it away. “Fine. Alright. Good enough,” he said in a choked voice.

He bent over and took his demon’s hand, gently pulling him to the couch, where they sat together, hands intertwined until Crowley seemed to get himself back together. 

“Would you still like some wine, my love?”

“Yes, fuck yes, please,” he said with a sigh. They laughed together, and drank several celebratory bottles that night. 

—— South Downs, for the foreseeable future —— 

Sunlight glowed through Aziraphale's white eyelet lace curtains. Crowley hated them, complained they looked like something a dour old woman would have, but they kept Aziraphale's library bright and lovely without letting in too much of the late summer sun. If their decor was left up to Crowley they'd live in a posh little dungeon, full of pompous black nonsense.

It had taken a miracle, but all of his books fit inside their little cottage in the South Downs, mostly in his impossibly spacious new library. His desk, the same one he’d had for over a century in his bookshop, was as pristine and well kept as ever by the window where he could see into Crowley’s greenhouse, filled with his eclectic collection of plants. Outside he’d grown even more, priding himself on having a garden to rival any other. He was slowly gathering a perfect specimen of every plant in existence in an attempt to eventually outshine Eden. It was a blasphemous pursuit that certainly suited a retired demon. 

There was a tap on his shoulder, and he turned around. Crowley was there, leaning over to hand him a perfect leaf. 

“A new one, darling?” Aziraphale asked as he accepted it. 

“Yup! A perfect hydrangea.”

Aziraphale hummed and retrieved the herbarium from its safe place. He flipped it open, thumbing through the dozens of pages they had added as Crowley declared more and more of the plants at their cottage perfect. A catalog of their time together, on their own side, a perfect combination of each’s favorite hobby.

“And what color, praytell, shall the perfect hydrangea bloom?”

“All of them, of course!” 

Aziraphale chuckled as he slid his new specimen between the pages. “Of course, how silly of me. I’ll need a new book soon, this one is almost filled up.” He closed it gently, stood and put it in the book press to preserve the new addition. “So many memories together. So many more to come.”

Crowley smiled, wide and toothy, because he didn’t need his smug little smile anymore. His arms opened, beckoning, and Aziraphale fell into his embrace. He sighed and buried his face in Crowley’s long, corded neck. With his eyes closed he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, rubbing his demon’s back as he basked in it all. Crowley smelled of petrichor from the garden, a bit of sweat and himself, the iron tinge of demon just on the edge. It was soothing, in an uncomfortable way, like all the pointy bony bits on Crowley’s edges that jabbed into him when they touched; knuckles and elbows and hipbones and all. Which they were free to do all they wanted, and so Aziraphale relished even the sharp bits. The bickering, the bones, the petty decor disagreements. 

Crowley drew back but left their arms loose around each other’s waists. “It’s a lovely day today. How about you get some fresh air? I’ll make you an herb tea from the garden.”

“Oh, I would love that, darling,” Aziraphale said, pressing a kiss to his temples. He blushed, but led him out to the bench on their porch by the hand. Aziraphale settled, watching the sun set as he waited. When Crowley returned with a steaming mug he joined him on the bench, passing it over before stretching. He settled, arm over the back and around Aziraphale’s shoulders, still pretending nonchalonce. 

Aziraphale politely didn’t comment, just happily settled in against his demon's shoulder, still thrilled by his freedom to do so, tucking a tartan blanket around both of them with his free hand. Crowley sneered at it, always so disdainful of anything that wasn’t cool enough, but he didn’t say anything either. 

The sun set as they watched, sipping tea and basking in each other’s warmth as the chill of night crept in. 

“So what’s your favorite one,” Crowley said.

“Favorite one what?”

“Memory, plant, entry or whatever. In your herbarium.” He chuckled. “Is it one from back when you were pining helplessly after me?”

“You silly snake,” Aziraphale chided. “I love them all. Because I love you.”

Crowley preened, “Do you now? How embarrassing for you.” 

That got them both to chuckling, and Aziraphale nuzzled under Crowley’s chin. Crowley stuttered performative words of displeasure as he pressed back, pulling Aziraphale closer and nestling the blankets a bit higher. They stayed that way until the stars came out, admiring Crowley’s favorites as the world turned to face them. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, dear readers, for reading my story! I hope you enjoyed it! If you'd like to come say hi to [me on Tumblr](https://serafaina.tumblr.com/) or go shower [Carrot](https://virtualcarrot.tumblr.com/) with all the praise for her soft beautiful art that she deserves!


End file.
